


A Flame That Still Burns

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A Horse and Her Boy, A Man and his horse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse, Animal Instincts, Fluff, I need some fluff under this username, Rescue and Rehabilitation, i suck at tagging things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Arthur hadn't made a habit of keeping the horses he'd saved.He saved a hell of a lot of horses, and if he kept them all the camp would be overrun with them. So he sold them to the stables, to people who would give them good lives.But something about this one... something about this one was different.“You strike that horse again, I’ll kill you.”





	A Flame That Still Burns

It had been a pretty good day.

 

The sun was shining, but it wasn’t too hot. There was a pleasant breeze, and for once Artemius was behaving beneath him, not complaining or trying to throw him. He had successfully robbed and fenced a coach, and his wallet was considerably heavier in his satchel. Arthur hadn’t dropped off the Gang’s share, yet, but even still he would get a fair amount despite giving them half, and then some.

 

So, naturally, he was in a damned good mood. Artemius seemed to pick up on it, a bit more pep in his step, ears perked forward for once. It was the first time he could remember the massive Shire actually listening to him since he’d got him off of Hosea. He loved the damn beast, but he was the most infuriating piece of horseflesh he had ever had the displeasure of knowing. Arthur was whistling from his perch on the stallion’s back, some tuneless version of a song he had heard a long time ago but never learned the name of, or the words to.

 

_ “Get up, dammit!” _

 

And, of course, it didn’t last.

 

The outlaw reined in Artemius, the Shire snorted and throwing his head as he stamped his hoof. He wanted to  _ go _ , not to stand still like the man was asking of him. But he did as was asked as Arthur stood up in the saddle, peering around to try to find the source of the sound.

 

_ “-rotten piece of horseflesh!” _

 

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed; that, combined with what he had heard before, set a nasty feeling low in his stomach. Despite how much he wants to go into Valentine, slip into the gunsmith and buy that new rifle he’s been eying before spending the night celebrating in the saloon, he wheels Artemius to the side and digs his heels into his flanks. The stallion snorted, but took off at a canter, quickly rounding a corner that set a rage burning in Arthur’s chest.

 

A sorry little bay was collapsed in the middle of the road, sides heaving so heavily that, even from afar, he could see it. She was harnessed to a wagon that looked far too heavily loaded for a horse of her size, and her coat was soaked in sweat. Her dull brown fur was flecked with red, concentrated largely on her flanks, and the source was easily found. The bay’s master was standing beside her, rage on his face and, as Arthur watched, he brought back the arm holding the bull-whip, voice carrying down the road, “Get  _ up _ dammit!”

 

He moved to bring the whip down again, stumbling at the sound of a shotgun being cocked. The furious Master whirled to face him, finding himself facing the outlaw, staring down the twin barrels of the gun. The outlaw bared his teeth, blue eyes steely as he snarled, “You strike that horse again, I’ll kill you.”

 

And the man must be the stupid sort of drunk, the scent of alcohol strong on his breath as he retorts, “She’s my horse, an’ I can do wit’ her wha’ I wish!” 

 

For a moment, Arthur can only stare at him in bewilderment—how dumb can one man get? He took a step forward, lowering the gun just enough to shove it under the man’s chin. The Master was just coherent enough to freeze, finally realizing the danger he was in, the foggy haze beginning to clear from his eyes. His adam’s apple bobbed, bumping against the barrel of the shotgun. “Now, mister,” the outlaw growled, “you go unhitch that horse right now.”

 

And perhaps the Master was not just a stupid drunk, but just all around stupid, as his beady black eyes narrowed and he flashed yellowed teeth in a snarl as he hissed, “Ain’t yer horse, why d’ya care?”

 

And Arthur scowled, finger tightening on the trigger. He wanted nothing more than to pull it, watch the man’s brain decorate the dirt that, as far as he was concerned, even one speck of was far better than the entirety of this man. The outlaw had met a great many men that he disliked, most of them outlaws, some of them lawmen—but he’d found that some of the ones he hated the worst were just average folks, one who held no power other than that over poor, dumb beasts, and raged over it, taking it out on those beasts that could not, or refused to, fight back. Arthur loved animals but, sometimes, he thought that they suffered too much for the humans who treated them so callously. 

 

But Arthur  _ had _ , up until now, been having a good day, and the man wasn’t worth taking the time to hide his carcass. So he simply aimed the barrel of the shotgun at the Master’s adam’s apple and  _ pushed _ , sending the man staggering with a strangled gasp. The Master hit the dirt, hands flying to his throat, and the dirt exploded next to his head as Arthur tensed his finger on the trigger. The Master screamed, cowering to the side, and the outlaw grinned in satisfaction. Now he knew, if only for a moment, how the beasts that served him so loyally felt at the wrath of his whip. 

 

“Git running, Mister.” he said conversationally, as though speaking of the weather, “and git gone. Valentine’s that way. If you get started now, you might be back in time for breakfast.” If a cougar didn’t get to him first, naturally. Arthur rather hoped one did—the man would actually do some good for once in his life.

 

And, for the first time since he had met him, the Master showed a lick of sense. The man scrambled to his feet, as ungainly as a newborn foal, taking off at a dead sprint. Arthur snorted, waiting for the man to be out of his eyesight before stepping over to Artemius, placing his shotgun into its sheath on his saddle and replacing it with a much smaller revolver, before turning to the gasping bay. She, at least he assumed it to be a she, stared up at him balefully, making another pitiful attempt to stand, before going back down.

 

The man hummed, stroking his fingers along her soaked neck, carefully avoiding the weeping welts. His fingers came away caked with dirt, and he scowled, shaking his head. How someone could treat a horse, any animal, this way, he could never understand. “Easy girl,” he murmured, beginning to undo the trappings of her harness, quickly finding them far too tight. It was a mistake for a new stable-hand to make, someone who had never fastened a harness before; the Master was far too old to have any excuse—to not know better. The fur was shorter beneath the harness, having not been free to grow, and with each removed strap his scowl deepened, and he would run his fingers soothingly over the line. With each stroke, the mare would give a relieved grunt, flesh twitching as she enjoyed the comforting touch.

 

He took his time when he got to the mare’s flanks, trying to avoid the shallow, but long, weeping wounds left behind by the bullwhip. It made rage boil in his chest, and he longed to hunt the man down and make him feel the same pain. When Hosea had taught him to drive a wagon, that was the first lesson he taught him: you never,  _ ever _ , struck the horses with a bullwhip. If you were using a regular whip, you could tap them with it to get them to move, but only ever lightly. Over his many driving lessons, and even while learning to herd cattle (in which they had made sure he knew not to strike the  _ cattle _ , either) they had reiterated, over and over, that you never struck man or beast with a bullwhip. When he had gotten cocky, and tried to pull off a trick, nearly hitting a mule with his whip, they had made him stand in the mule’s place while Dutch lashed the whip until it hit his arm from the same distance so that he knew what it would have felt like; one of only a handful of times that they had ever struck him. He had never used a bullwhip near an animal again, and had hesitated to touch one ever since. Both Hosea and Dutch had insisted on carrying multiple regular whips on any of the Gang’s wagons, but it was inevitable that they might have to steal a wagon, as he had done today, or make a rapid getaway on one that was not his own. So he had been taught with a bullwhip which, while not a preferred tool for wagon-driving, was unfortunately common among farmers and ranchers. 

 

The harness finally removed, he tossed it to the side, uncaring to try and salvage it. If he tried, he could have sold it, could have fenced the entire wagon and gotten a fair amount as he had earlier. But he wanted to be done with this whole thing as soon as he could. Arthur patted the mare on her shoulder, standing and feeling his back complain from having knelt so long, telling her to “Stay down, sweet thing, get some rest.”

 

The wagon, he found, wasn’t full of anything worth selling. A few tins of beans which he shoved into his satchel. Five dollars in a money clip, shoved into his pocket. The rest was mostly tinned food, that he didn’t have any room for, and wooden crates that, when he pried them open with his knife, were full of what he took to be the man’s harvest. The few boxes he checked didn’t look too good, wilted and off-color, but it was still  _ food _ and so, while he couldn’t take it back himself, he would send John or Lenny to bring it back to camp.

 

Storing what he could on Artemius, he offered the stallion a sugar cube for being so good (and he was rather suspicious at this point, the Shire had his moments but never behaved for such a long period of time) before returning to the bay. She looked to have regained her second wind, flanks no longer heaving quite so much, having curled up into a position that looked far more comfortable, not half so accidental, no longer appearing half-dead. The mare whickered tiredly at him, and he stooped down to take her halter softly in his hands.

 

“Easy girl, easy. Up ya get now,” he tugged gently, cradling her chest and pushing upwards, nothing more than a bit of pressure to nudge her upwards, and she groaned as she gathered her forelegs beneath her, propping herself up. “There ya go, there ya go! See, yer doin’ it! Thatta girl!” he stood as she did, keeping a grip on her halter, other hand moving to her shoulder, watching her warily for fear that she would go back to the ground. It took her a few false starts to get her hind-legs beneath her, shoving herself up onto her hooves. She swayed alarmingly, head so low to the ground he feared she was breathing nothing but dust, legs stiff as she fought to stand.

 

Arthur murmured nonsense as he stroked his hand down her neck, carefully avoiding the welts, making his way down to her legs. He had feared that she had broken something, from the way she had been sprawled it was clear she had gone down rather hard, and she had seemed reluctant to put weight on her legs. Gently, he squeezed his way down from her shoulders to her hocks, testing the bones and the tendons and the muscles. The only thing he could see wrong was her broken knees, the skin split, baring the flesh beneath it into ghastly, ragged red circles. By the time he was done, his hands were red with the blood that trickled down her legs, but he determined that nothing seemed torn or broken, and so the little mare would have a chance to live—it was no guarantee, but it was a damned better chance than if he had to put a bullet between her eyes. 

 

He stepped back, reaching into his satchel. If he remembered right, he had some peppermints; Artemius couldn’t stand the things, weird horse he was, but Brown Jack would turn backflips for them, and they were the only thing that would motivate Bill’s lazy horse. Hopefully, the mare would like them as well. They were at the bottom of his satchel but, thankfully, wrapped in foil, so they weren’t _completely_ filthy. When he unwrapped one, it shattered in his hand but, offering it to her, she was more than happy to accept it, ears perking. A silky muzzle brushed against his palm, and she was almost impossibly gentle as she took it from him, making sure not to scrape him with her teeth. As she chewed, her face became more animated than he had yet seen, coming the closest thing to a smile he had ever seen on a horse.

 

Slowly, making sure to telegraph his movements, Arthur reached for his lasso. The mare stilled, watching him warily, and he raised up the loop on the end. “Jus’ gonna put this on ya, girl. Alright?” Carefully, he slipped the loop over her head, making sure it didn’t touch her ears, and worked it down her neck until it was settled loosely against her shoulders. The bay snorted, and shook her head, but didn’t fuss or argue, seeming resigned to whatever fate he had in mind for her. But Arthur had no cruel intentions for her, instead returning to Artemius’s side, looping the lasso around the saddle-horn. He mounted up, offering the stallion his last sugar cube, slipping all but one of the wrapped peppermints into his pocket in case he needed to coax the mare along.

 

Squeezing his thighs into Artemius’ sides, Arthur unwrapped the peppermint, ready to offer it to the bay if she needed some coaxing. But when he clicked his tongue, looking back over his shoulder, he found her stumbling along behind them, barely any slack left in the rope. He reined in Artemius, slowing him to a lazy walk as they made their way back to camp, mindful of the mare’s stiff-legged, staggering gait behind them. 

 

He hadn’t gotten to buy his new shotgun, or spend his earnings at the saloon but, he supposed, it was worth it.


End file.
